


The War Was In Colour (short)

by imbluedabadeedabadi



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Drinking, Drunken Kissing, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Soulmates, colour soulmate au, colour soulmates, pre ww2, what is this trope even called, yay first fic online ever??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 15:54:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6812134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imbluedabadeedabadi/pseuds/imbluedabadeedabadi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the day of the attack on Pearl Harbor, Bucky knew what was coming.<br/>One day, one day soon, he'd have to leave Steve. He might not even come back.  Steve's world would lose its light and its colour in one fell swoop.<br/>Bucky hasn't said any of this aloud to Steve, of course. Steve can just read it through the colours. Harsh and brittle, their edges almost serrated in their sharpness when another pang of worry lands squarely in Bucky's gut.<br/>That night, Bucky drank.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The War Was In Colour (short)

**Author's Note:**

> Colourpart = What you'd refer to your colour soulmate as. Like you'd refer to somebody as your "partner" or "friend" - Steve is Bucky's colourpart and vice-versa. 1940's society believed colourparts were naturally one male and one female, and any male/male, female/female or more-than-two-person colourpartnerships were considered the result of an unfortunate genetic disorder.  
> The 'Bleed' = When two colourparts first meet, the process of their surroundings first becoming saturated is referred to as 'the bleed'.  
> Monochromat = Somebody who has not yet encountered their colourpart, and still sees in black and white.
> 
> This is an extract from what was going to be a bigger fic long long ago but was never finished (or started really lol). It generally follows the basic colour soulmate AU trope, except that perceptions of colour are more effected by emotions/mental states of both the colourparts.  
> Disclaimer - I am not an American in the 1940s. I have no idea about any of the things mentioned except what I could be bothered to google about. If you spot any giant holes in my knowledge please inform me !!

On the day of the attack on Pearl Harbor, Bucky knew what was coming.

They'd both known it was coming for a long time now, but it had always felt so distant. Like the stories of bloodshed were nothing more than the radio shows and newspaper clippings from where they emerged. Stories, tall tales, propaganda. But now, when the crackling receiver gravely reported statistic upon statistic during the fallout of the bombing, all the patriotic grandeur the war had stirred thus far seemed cold and lifeless in the greying faces of the New Yorkers.

One day, one day soon, Buck would have to leave Steve. He might not even come back.

Steve's world would lose all its light and all its colour in one fell swoop.

His despair in contemplating a Bucky-less, colourless world was so all-consuming that he doesn't even stop to consider how he'll survive the winter months without his friend to pull him through, although he knows that's all Bucky will be fretting about.

Bucky hasn't said any of this aloud to Steve, of course. Steve can just read it through the colours. Harsh and brittle, their edges almost serrated in their sharpness when another pang of worry lands squarely in Bucky's gut. Aggression, anger, frustration - mottled with smudges of confusion and heartache. Steve wasn't sure how much of the distortion was due to himself and his own concern for Bucky's current mental wellbeing, and how much his actual colourpart's.

That night, Bucky drank.

And if Steve thought that the time in Brooklyn Bandstand was bad, he knew nothing. For this, _this,_ was Bucky truly drinking away his mind.

It started off slowly, Bucky ordered a whisky, and then another, and Steve just let him.  After they reached their ways into his friend's bloodstream, Steve saw the colours dulling softly from their cutting panic, taking Bucky's worries with it. Steve knew it was better this way, better he let him forget, just for a night. It was calming himself slightly, in fact, either it was some sort of 'second hand drinking' side effect that came with the gift of colour, or it was just the relief of seeing his friend's expression turn from a strained frown to a melted posture of content.

But then Bucky had another

and another

and another.

Eventually Steve stopped counting between his pleas for him to slow down, exactly how many times the glass was brought up to Bucky's ever slacking, pouted lips, and brought back empty to the bar with a solid klunk.

Several times did Bucky manage to order 2 drinks, pushing one in the direction of Steve, "to your health Steven!" He said, perhaps a little too loud for the melancholic tone of the bar, "..or what’s left of it." He finished elegantly, giggling as he brought the glass back to his face. It wasn't until the 4th time he repeated his joke that Steve even took a reluctant sip. It was going to be a long night.

After watching Bucky destroy at least 1/4 of his already deteriorating brain cells, Steve told him it was time to go. Steve assisted Buck as he tumbled superbly off his bar stool, nearly taking the man aside them down with him, and pulled him up towards the door. Bucky tried to wave him off, "I'm fine Steve, God, you're such a mother..."

Steve dropped the weight of his friend, only to watch him stumble once more. Bucky didn't resist when Steve tried to help again, "Come on you big jerk..."

They had barely made it two paces towards the exit, when he saw them:

Connie and Dorothy. Connie " _call-me-candy"_ Jones and Dottie " _Dot"_ Potter.

Steve had hoped that Bucky hadn't noticed, and attempted feebly to continue the expedition, dragging his friend by the arm behind him, but he was too late.

"He-ey girlies! Can' I-I buy you lovely gals a drink?" Bucky managed to rattle off semi-eloquently. The girls blushed profusely, tittering to each other in a falsetto language Steve struggled to even identify as English.

"You know what, I think he's had enough, don't you? We better be getting back, come on now Bu-"

"I'm fine, Steve!" Bucky pulled away from his grip sharply, turning briskly towards nothing in particular, "besides, what kind of heartless...cruel...individual could let two lovely ladies go thirsty at this hour?" Bucky threw his arms out in a shrug, his upper body twisting like a pendulum, "Not me!" He planted an arm on each of the girls, steering them towards a set of soft chairs in the corner, each of them giggling like they were all on 4 gallons of whisky.

And he was gone.

2 hours later and Steve's practically carrying Bucky home. He manoeuvres them through the streets of Brooklyn, round the safest corners and avoiding the dark alley ways. The route takes them a bit longer, but, although he wouldn't like to admit it, Steve realised that if a fight broke out now, he wasn't sure if he could bring himself out of it, let alone him and his fading lump of an intoxicated best friend.

By the time Steve jammed the key to Bucky's flat in the door, he felt nearly as wasted as his friend must have been. The colours around him had melded into puddles of confusion, the sidewalk not differentiating much from the road, and the yellow-gold of the stars multiplying and increasing in intensity as Steve gazed wistfully up at them. Bucky rose a wavering finger to the night sky, and seems to send the stars surrounding it flying into an array of sparks and swirls, making Steve's head spin. Looking back at the door, he could almost see the maroon paint dripping onto the bricks of the walls, and taking off into the air around them, spinning like drips of water on a window.

God, he needed sleep.

"Better get ready, Buck" Steve said, after dumping Bucky onto his unmade bed in the room with the window facing out onto the streets, "you won't want to sleep in that garb." Bucky just 'mm'd' in recognition, but Steve wasn't sure if he had really understood what he'd said. He supposed it didn't really matter.

Walking out of the room, he found himself in Bucky's main living area. There weren’t vast amounts of disorder, because, to be honest, there weren’t many belongings to become disordered. A sofa was positioned roughly in the centre of the room, beside a carpet with stains that suggested it had long since seen better days. A kitchenette stood unsuspectingly in the furthest right hand side, possessing a humble selection of a fridge, a couple of cupboards and a stove. An ironing board was out.

Steve made his way over to the record player next to the sofa, and began thumbing his way through Bucky's music collection. It was a small selection - Bucky's tastes ranging from Rachmaninoff piano concertos to the swing records Steve gave to him after his own mother passed. He found it hard to enjoy them after she was gone.

Steve placed a record onto the machine, and delicately guided the needle to the spinning disk like he’d watched his Mom do countless times in their own apartment all those years ago. The room was filled with the sweet drone of The Ink Spots:

_"I don't want to set the world on fire_

_I just want to start_

_A flame in your heart"_

Hands in pockets, he hopped slowly over to the window looking out onto the streets of Brooklyn. It was quiet out, and the colours was unassuming and peaceful, even if they were tinted with the slight blur of alcohol. The world had become docile and still in colour , Steve assumed that Bucky had fallen asleep next door. He closed his eyes and let the music surround him.

_"In my heart I have but one desire_

_And that one is you_

_No other will do"_

Steve thought he was dreaming when he felt a pair of arms appear behind him, and intertwine themselves with his own. They pulled him gently round to face the broad chest of his colourpart. Bucky took Steve's hands, which had already slipped carelessly from his pockets, in his own, and began to move his feet slowly in time with the music. He moved slower and with less precision than the other times they practiced, but with no less grace and gentleness.

_"I've lost all ambition for worldly acclaim_

_I just want to be the one you love_

_And with your admission that you feel the same_

_I'll have reached the goal I'm dreaming of"_

As they danced Steve could feel their bodies gravitate closer towards each other, creating a closer proximity that any other time before then, meaning that a couple of times did they trip over each other’s toes and bump softly into one another, only to dismiss their mistakes with breathy laughter. The room seemed to absorb the light coming from the single lamp at the edge of the apartment, and send it in delicate streams pouring round the ankles of the pair, and decorating the walls and ceiling with intricate gold patters, illuminating with their laughter, and fading effortlessly with the music.

_"Believe me,_

_I don't want to set the world on fire_

_I just want to start_

_A flame in your heart"_

By the time the final instrumental had faded out, leaving the atmosphere suspended in an impossible stillness, the two had reached the window. Steve had looked up now, up into the - impossibly- blue and glittering eyes of Bucky.

"Buck I-"

But he didn't let him finish. The younger man swiftly, and with all the assurance a drunken man could summon, silenced Steve's protests with lips pressed against his own. Steve, for all his nerves and doubts, found himself leaning into the kiss, leaning into his colourpart, letting the unimportances of the  world around him fall apart to leave only what was real, the only thing he had left on this earth. The colours moved from the walls to where they were clasped together in the centre of the room, forming a halo of light and dancing blurred shapes. Bucky's perfect mouth parted slightly, allowing his tongue to brush up against Steve's lips, its warmth spread like ripples in a pool across Steve's already flushed cheeks, all the way to the tips of his ears.

_No_ , Steve thought, _this isn't him, this isn't what he would normally be doing._

The thought was like a poison, eating at Steve's heart in a way only the truth could. Around him, the mild distortion of colour reminded him of Bucky's current mindset, illuminating the possibility that he may not even remember what happened in the morning. Steve knew he had to stop this, before he let himself go too far. The pain in denying his racing heart was almost too much to bear, but he had to do it. For Bucky.

"Buck-" Steve turned his face slightly, only to have Bucky's lips clumsily plant themselves right back to his own. This wasn't going to be easy.

"Buck, please-" Steve placed his hands lightly on the chest in front of him, trying to push away, but Bucky had moved his mouth on, and was placing a trace of sloppy kisses down to his jaw line and neck. Steve’s mind was less clouded now, and wrinkled his nose in mild disgust at the train of saliva his friend had left on his skin. By the time the brunet was fumbling at Steve's top shirt button, he knew he had to stop it, before it was too late.

"Bucky." Steve said, and pushed Bucky firmly away from him. The younger man's hands fell to his sides, and a lumpy frown dumped itself onto his face. Steve could almost see the colours sharpen in hurt from the rejection, but they quickly matted back to the drunken blur they were before.

"You’re drunk, James, it's not right." Steve looked up from underneath stern brows, hoping that his point had made its way through. It had. Bucky nodded wearily, as he battled to open his mouth to speak.

"You-ou never call me - yawn- that." He rubbed his eyes, blinking harshly against the - now standard- colour.

Steve sighed, pausing for a moment before moving to steer Bucky back to his room.

In his haze, Bucky seemed to have managed to throw on clothing that more resembled sleepware than his previous attire - Steve was grateful that he didn't have to deal with that. He got his friend into bed as best he could, pulling the sheets up to his shoulders. Bucky's eyes were closed as Steve turned away, stepping towards the door, with an intention of heading back home.

"Stay with me?"

The quiet noise from behind him was so unexpected that Steve jumped to turn round. He found himself staring into Bucky's impossibly glowing eyes once more, now open, alert and fully serious in the dark room.

Steve paused in the doorway, staring at the little boy he skipped round the park with those so many years ago, telling wild stories of pirates and time travel, surrounded by colour and the buzzing noises of each other's senses. Little did they know it back then, but that day had changed them in ways they couldn't possibly imagine, forming and altering the course of their lives forever more. At the heart of all their struggles and confused emotions, both knew that there is nothing on this earth that would ever make them wish to give it up.

Steve found himself sighing softly, kicking off his shoes, and slipping silently between the sheets, and allowed himself to drift off to the sound of Bucky's gentle breathing. After all, what damage could one more night do?


End file.
